After the Bullet
by girlsix
Summary: Incapacitated by a terrible wound, Dillon finds someone he thought he'd lost ten years before.
1. Chapter 1

_**A/N: Thank you all for your wonderful feedback! This story takes place after "Gold Train: The Bullet", and contains spoilers for that episode. I've left this story to languish on my hard drive for over a year. It's turning out to be novel-length in my head. As soon as I finish a couple of other things, I will update this one, I promise!**_

After the Bullet

~~Chapter 1

Dillon woke with a taste on the back of his tongue like burned molasses, his gut oily and heavy as if he'd eaten a great joint of spoiled meat. He rolled over in the large bed. The sheets were damp, he was naked and he didn't remember getting undressed. The sun through the window lit the blue and amber bottles arranged on his bedside table like votive offerings. Dust motes drifted slowly in the colored light. Dillon listened to the rattle of wooden wheels on cobblestone, the chatter and wail of the vendors on the street below and the distant, arrhythmic thump of a machine in one of the factories along the wharf. The slight breeze brought the smell of the Pacific Ocean and the scent of white rice steamed in jasmine water.

He tried to remain immobile while he waited for the pain in his back to subside. His head pounded, a side effect of the Laudanum and was almost worse than his back. The headaches would break with a sound in his ears like the crack of a whip and the pain would pour out of him in a violent bout of vomiting and shivering tears.

Tobil gave him meadow wort for his stomach and willow bark for his headaches. Doc gave him a grainy, cloying powder that was supposed to unknot bowels twisted by the other medications. It all made him feel sick and dizzy.

He reached slowly for the Laudanum and swigged from the bottle through clenched teeth. He dragged his legs off the bed and pushed himself to a seated position. He stared at the bottle in his hand. He threw it across the room but it didn't break. He looked at the crumpled slip of paper on which Doc had written an address.

It took him nearly an hour to get dressed. His hands trembled and his ears rang. He felt as if he as much as sneezed, he would shatter into a thousand pieces.

xxxxxxx

They were trapped in a sweltering boxcar stopped en route to Denver, lead flying and surrounded by outlaws when Doc cut the bullet from Dillon's back. Doc performed another surgery when they arrived in Denver, removing a large blood clot and re-stitching the hastily sewn sutures that he put in on the train. The young specialist - the reason they came to Denver in the first place – peered over Doc's shoulder, scribbling notes on a drawing of a human vertebra.

xxxxxxx

"I don't know, Matt," said Doc. He looked away and shook his head. "There are tiny fragments of lead buried in the tissue and there are just too many nerves there for me to go digging around anymore. It's terribly inflamed and where's there's inflammation, there's pain – especially near the spinal cord. You think it hurts now but your body is in shock. When those nerves start waking up -." Doc brushed a hand across his mustache and swallowed hard. "I'm sorry, Matt. When those nerves start working again, you're going to wish that bullet had killed you."

"I've been shot before, Doc," said Dillon, his speech slurred from Laudanum and ether.

"Not like this," said Doc. He wrote an address on a piece of paper. "Here. I'm sending you to San Francisco. Talk to the man at this address. Do what he says. His people have five thousand years of medicine on us. I don't always understand it but a good bit of it works."

"Why San Francisco?" asked Dillon.

"Even if, by some _miracle_, you would actually follow my medical advice, you and I both know that if you get within twenty miles of Dodge, it's the _people_ won't leave you be. They'll have you on a fucking _horse_ chasing around rustlers because of _one_ goddamn scrawny missing calf. You need to be far enough away so they can't be calling you over to Wichita or St. Louis for trials or picking up prisoners or some other bullshit."

"Okay," said Dillon

"Just do what I tell you for once!"

"I'm not arguing, Doc."

"And Festus is going with you."

xxxxxxx

Dillon arrived in San Francisco in a Laudanum fog, nauseous, weak and unable to remember the train ride from Denver. He and Festus checked into a small hotel on Bay Street. The place was spotless, even though the local government recently declared the entirety of Chinatown a health nuisance. The fixtures gleamed and the rooms were cool and dry. The staff boiled the sheets, towels and even the dishes in large vats in the back of the hotel. Festus half-carried Dillon up the flight of stairs to their room and laid him gently on the bed. For days, Dillon woke only to vomit or piss in the pot, to take in a few ounces of water or to drink from the flat brown bottle of Laudanum. Festus bathed him, dressed him and when he was able, socked his solid shoulder under Dillon's arm to walk him slowly down the hall to the lavatory.

Festus cared for Dillon with cheerful tenderness and unwavering optimism. But the pain in Dillon's back made him short-tempered. The Laudanum made him anxious and overly sensitive. He was grateful for Festus but could not bear to see the pity in his eyes. As soon as he could walk more than a few yards on his own, Dillon asked Festus to leave.

"I gave my word to Doc that I'd help you with your recuperationing, Matthew. You can barely lift your arms."

"I'll be fine, Festus. You're the best friend a man could have and I thank you," said Dillon. "But what I need most right now is some solitude."

"I caint leave you in a strange city all by your lonesome."

"I want you back in Dodge. I'll rest easier if I know you're there with Newly. I'd be obliged if you'd go back and look after things."

Festus puffed out his chest a bit, fingering the holes in his vest where his badge used to be.

"Newly always did need a heap of mollycoddling," he said. "But if you need _anything_, Matthew, you send for me and faster than you can say a rat ran over the roof with a piece of raw liver in his mouth, I'll be here."

"Thanks, Festus."

"And don't you worry none about Miss Kitty."

XXXXxxxxXXXX

~~Chapter 2

Dillon walked shakily to the address off Portsmouth Square, grateful that it was only two blocks from his hotel. The sign outside said, "Dr. Swenson's Apothecary" but behind the counter inside was a slender, dark man with large almond eyes. He had a plump rosebud of a mouth and a hooked nose that looked meant for a much larger face.

"Dr. Swenson?" said Dillon.

"Mr. Swenson was never a doctor and I am not Mr. Swenson," the man said. He held out an elegant hand. "I am Dr. Aran Thind. And _you_ are Marshal Dillon."

"Doctor Adams told you about me?"

Thind nodded solemnly. "He did, indeed. He also told me that you are one lucky son of a bitch."

"I see," said Dillon.

"Well," Thind said, brightening. "Let's take a look at you. Follow me, please."

Dillon went with him to a small, neat examining room. Thind pulled up Dillon's shirt and probed the healing wound with his fingertips. He ran his hand down Dillon's right leg and gently squeezed his shin. Dillon let out a soft grunt of pain.

"Hmm," said the doctor, picking up a pad and making notes.

"What do you think?" asked Dillon.

"Too much Laudanum."

"What?"

"It is keeping you sedentary. I will give you honey oil. It will only make your pain bearable, not take it away. But you will feel much better and can began to wean from the Laudanum. It will also soothe your stomach and your headaches. You will want to eat again."

"Sounds like a snake oil cure-all."

Dr. Thind shrugged. "It has many properties," he said. "No snakes."

"I got shot in the back. Why does my leg hurt so much?"

"You have some nerve damage that is manifesting as pain in your lower leg. Uncomfortable, yes but better that than nothing. It is difficult to walk on a leg you cannot feel." Thind tapped the pad in his hand with his pencil. "It also means we can start your rehabilitation."

"So what do I do?"

"First, you will walk uphill."

"Uphill?"

"And stairs when you can manage. It will exercise your lower back, get the blood flowing to that area. The nerve that makes your leg hurt is irritated. Nerves get used to being irritated and do not like to calm down. We have to get that nerve into the habit of working properly again. Easing the swelling will help. Cold compresses three times a day. Boiled stones at night. I will send my boy to help you. If you must take the Laudanum, measure one finger's worth in a glass. Do not drink from the bottle. You will take too much."

"I guess I can do that," said Dillon, wondering about the boiled stones.

"Come to the shop again on Saturday and I will see how you are progressing."

"When can I go back to Dodge? A couple of weeks?"

Thind blinked. "Oh no, Marshal. A couple of months. Perhaps three," he said.

"I can't be away from Dodge for three months."

"You must."

Dillon's jaw hardened.

Thind sat on a stool and laced his fingers loosely in his lap. "Galen told me you'd be difficult," he said. "Mr. Dillon, if you don't heal properly, you will finish what that bullet started. Pain can cripple you as surely as if you lost a limb. It will make you an old man before your time. And you will perhaps become dependent on Laudanum. We both know that that is much, much worse than the pain."

Dillon sighed and nodded. The pain had started to grow in his back again. He felt a wave of helplessness and despair. His eyes pricked with tears and he cursed the Laudanum for his mood swings. His head ached terribly. He shifted his leg and gasped with pain.

"The honey oil will eventually make that nerve stop being so fussy," said Thind.

"Thank you," said Dillon, quietly.

"We will make you better, Marshal." Thind patted Dillon on the arm. "Come now. I will prepare your regimen," he said.

xxxxxxx

Dillon walked slowly back to the hotel, reading Thind's list. He was to walk uphill until tired, stop and rest, walk uphill until tired then come back down. He had to apply a cold compress three times a day and boiled stones at bedtime. He was to take five drops of honey oil on the back of the tongue every four hours and to try not to take the Laudanum at all.

He realized that he forgot to ask the doctor what the hell were "boiled stones."

That evening, Dillon washed down one finger of Laudanum with a glass of water. After a moment, he took five drops of the honey oil. It tasted faintly of licorice and strongly of kerosene. It wasn't at all sweet. His stomach seemed to cool immediately and his diaphragm to slowly unclench. He inhaled deeply then exhaled in an uneven gasp. It still hurt to do that but it felt more like normal pain - pain he understood - not the alien grinding, burning pain that he had since the bullet was removed.

He also realized that he was no longer frightened.

He peered at the label on the vial of honey oil. The writing was Sanskrit but beneath that, in tiny letters were the words, "_extract of hashish_" written in English.

"Huh," said Dillon. "No snakes."

He drifted into sleep wondering how in the world he was going to eat boiled stones.

XXXXxxxxXXXX

~~Chapter 3

A knock on the door jerked Dillon awake the following morning. He grunted loudly and gritted his teeth. The pain was back in full force.

"Fuck," he gasped.

The door opened a crack.

"Not now," said Dillon. "No towels."

"Mr. Marshal Dillon? It is I. Pradeep Shantakrishnan."

"Wha - ? Who?"

A young man stepped into the room. "Dr. Aran Thind sent me. I am his assistant." He held up an oiled leather bag the size of a wine skin. "I have ice for your back."

Dillon reached for the bottle of Laudanum. Pradeep stepped forward quickly and moved the bottle out of reach.

"No, Mr. Marshal Dillon. Ice first. And honey oil. Doctor said."

"But –."

"You will see. For you it is better this." Pradeep smiled and bobbed his head gently from side to side. His teeth were large and white and his eyebrows were thick flat slashes, like crow's feathers. His hair was straight and dense and combed back from a deep widow's peak. He set the bag of ice at the foot of the bed and pulled back the comforter.

When he felt fingers slip under the band of his underwear, Dillon thought the boy was simply shifting them to expose more of his skin. Instead, Pradeep pulled the pants down and off in one swift move.

"Wait a minute," exclaimed Dillon. He tried to sit up.

Pradeep put a warm hand on Dillon's shoulder, pressing him back down.

"You will be still, Mr. Marshal Dillon," he said. "After the ice, I will tend you for your bath."

He spread a towel on Dillon's lower back and gently positioned the bag of ice. He opened the vial of honey oil and held the dipstick to Dillon's mouth.

"I can do it," said Dillon.

Pradeep only smiled. Dillon opened his mouth and took the drops, his face flushing with embarrassment. He laid his head on the pillows and watched Pradeep bustled about the room. The boy was fey and willowy and there was something familiar about the way he moved.

"Dr. Thind said his son would bring the ice," said Dillon.

Pradeep filled the water basin then turned to Dillon with the jug in his hands. "The doctor has no son, Mr. Marshal Dillon. I am his…assistant," he said. He focused his gaze on a neutral spot, squared his shoulders and lifted his chin.

Dillon realized why Pradeep was familiar. He moved like a girl pretending to be a boy. But Pradeep was male. Of that, Dillon was certain.

"Where's the best place to get boiled rocks?" asked Dillon.

"I will bring them at nine of the clock tonight," said Pradeep. His smile was huge.

"I don't want to put you out."

"It is none of the put out, Mr. Marshal Dillon. I – We live above the shop. It is not far for me to come."

"How do you cook them?"

"Cook?"

"The rocks. How are they prepared?"

"They boil in the water for twenty minutes until they are hot through." Pradeep frowned. "I believe, Mr. Marshal Dillon that you are thinking that the boiled rocks are for eating?"

"I'm asking."

Pradeep's laugh was silent, his thin shoulders shaking and his eyes squeezed shut. "No, Mr. Marshal Dillon. We heat the rocks then put them in a flour sack for your back." He clamped a thin hand over a burst of soundless giggles. "You will see. You will be very happy from the boiled rocks," he said, wiping tears from his smooth cheeks.

"I think I can get dressed on my own," grumbled Dillon.

XXXXxxxxXXXX

~~Chapter 4

Dillon slowly walked up the slight hill past Portsmouth Square. Pradeep waved brightly at him from the apothecary. After a half dozen yards, Dillon sat on a large rock beneath a fragrant eucalyptus tree. He tapped a few drops of honey oil on his tongue. He was one week into Thind's treatment regimen of ice, hot stones and hashish. His back hurt very much but his stomach was quiet, his mood stabilized and his headache was diminished. He still had no appetite but he managed to keep down half of a soft boiled egg and a few spoonfuls of sweet rice at breakfast. He was two days without Laudanum. For the first time since his injury, he slept through the night - real sleep, not the blank unconsciousness of a Laudanum stupor.

He also awakened with an erection that morning, the first in more than a month.

On his way back down the hill, Dillon stopped at his rock beneath the eucalyptus tree. By force of habit, he surveyed the scene through his lawman's eyes. People bustled up and down the street, moving quickly, no one stopping to chat or linger in front of shop windows. There were very few white men on the street and almost no women of any race. There were no children. Ships crowded the harbor and from this distance, their masts seemed to crisscross like a child's game of pick-up sticks. Just a block away was the Barbary, the alleys there practically deserted at this early hour. Wet rubbish piled in the shallow trenches along the boardwalks and trash blew in whirlwinds down the street. Dillon had never seen so much paper just tossed on the ground.

Dillon realized that he felt good. The world seemed to be coming back to him. He could smell sewage and salt water, fry oil, boiling crab and the warm, caramel aroma of burning opium.

The breeze blew a thin paper handbill against his leg. He peeled it off and read it idly. It advertised a medical conference. At the bottom was the last talk on the program: On the Prevention and Treatment of Cholera and Typhoid, by Dr. J.A. Lemieux, M.D.

It took a moment for the name to register. It could be her. It had been a decade since he last saw her. She'd written him often in the first few years of her return to France and when she was at Sorbonne studying medicine. She would be a doctor by now but still young to be speaking at a medical conference. The date on the handbill was from a week prior.

He had missed her.

~~Chapter 5

Dillon folded the handbill and put it in his pocket. His relationship with James Anna Lemieux was brief and intense. She was ten years in his history - and she was no longer in San Francisco.

There was no need to get head up about it.

He sat on the rock under the eucalyptus tree and waited for his heart to stop pounding.

xxxxxxx

The sound of a storm woke Dillon the following morning. He rolled over carefully and looked out the window. The sky was dark. Rain beat the glass hard enough to rattle the window in its frame but street vendors still called out their wares below.

Dillon straightened his legs and stretched gingerly. He had another erection - this one more persistent than yesterday's. Dr. Thind told him that it was unlikely that the bullet had damaged other nerves in his body but it was very likely that the near-overdoses of Laudanum he was taking made him impotent. When the Laudanum worked its way out of his system, he should return to normal. Dillon didn't like the words "likely", "unlikely" and "should." His last dose of Laudanum was three days ago. Yesterday's erection could've only been pressure from his overfull bladder.

It was time he settled the matter.

He held his cock in the circle of his fingers and gave himself an experimental squeeze. He received a satisfying throb in response. He blew out an uneven sigh of relief. He glanced at the bedside clock and debated. He might have time before Pradeep came with his morning cold compress. Dillon gripped himself more firmly. He huffed out a laugh. He was out of practice. He hadn't masturbated regularly since he was a kid. He shifted his hips and a bright bolt of pain shot through his back. He gasped and held his breath. His erection did not diminish. He slid his foreskin slowly over the head of his cock, constricting it gently in the circle of his thumb and forefinger. Pleasure spread warmly in his lower abdomen.

There was a light tap on the door and Pradeep rushed in without waiting for an answer.

"Good morning, Mr. Marshal Dillon," he sang.

"Come in," said Dillon, casually dropping a pillow over his midsection.

Pradeep frowned. "I am in," he said.

"So you are."

He gazed at Dillon. "Your face is red," he said.

"I'm fine," Dillon said tightly.

"Here is your ice. Doctor says no outdoors today. He is afraid the mud is making you to fall and that would not be good."

"You got no argument from me." Dillon rolled onto his belly and Pradeep placed the bag of ice on his lower back.

"But do not lay about today, Mr. Marshal Dillon. Doctor says to do the exercises he showed you." Pradeep bent gracefully from side to side and marched rapidly in place. "Like this. But not so fast as me," he said. "I must go now, Mr. Marshall Dillon. "Doctor is going for see a lecture at the medical school. I have to mind the shop."

"Oh, yeah?" said Dillon, trying inconspicuously to reposition his hard cock.

"I am preparing a special meal for tonight but I will make the time to bring your ice and boiled rocks. I will bring you my excellent masala. It is very excellent."

"That sounds fine, Pradeep. Bring it on over." Dillon wasn't sure how his stomach would take the spicy food but he was bored with the bland diet he had been eating.

"Can you manage your bathing on your own today?"

"I can manage," said Dillon. He had been able to manage for two weeks but Pradeep insisted on fussing.

"I can help you with the reaching your _thaili_," said Pradeep, coming toward Dillon with a damp sponge.

"No," Dillon said quickly. He held up his hand. "I can wash my own..._thaili_, thanks."

Pradeep chattered on while he bustled about the room setting up Dillon's shaving things. Dillon barely listened. Though the moment had passed, he was fairly certain that everything was in working order. He would attend to it later.

"It is nice to see you smile, Mr. Marshal Dillon," said Pradeep.

xxxxxxx

Dillon spent the day reading in the hotel's small lobby in between relays of up and down the stairs and doing Thind's exercises. The hotel staff, already fascinated with Dillon, followed him around asking him questions in Cantonese.

As afternoon turned to evening, Dillon went up to his room. He was pleasantly tired and was actually hungry. It was an hour or so until Pradeep came with his boiled rocks - hopefully with some of his excellent masala. Dillon toed off his boots, swallowed a few drops of honey oil and stretched out on the bed. The last of the light drained from the sky and cold, damp air wafted through the half open window. Dillon smelled wet wood and the sea and he listened to the sounds of Chinatown settling in for the night.

The sharp smell of sulfur from a struck match slowly roused Dillon from sleep. He opened his eyes and saw a figure reading the creased handbill in the light of one candle.

"Are you trying to get shot?" asked Dillon.

"And ruin this pretty dress?" The figure turned around. "Hello, cherie," said Jimmy.

XXXXxxxxXXXX


	2. Chapter 2

Hi, Gunsmoke fans! Wait, what are we called? Smokers? Gunnies? Gunners? Smokies? I personally call myself Mrs. Dillon, but that's just me.

Anyway - I love y'all like Chester loves biscuits and gravy. I have not abandoned you! I'm TOTALLY going to update this. I've been traveling and had the flu and all kinds of work stuff.

Thank you so much for the love! I'll be back soon.


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